


The Way You Say My Name

by OhCaptainMyCaptain



Series: Stucky Porn Prompt Challenge [18]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Blow Jobs Against a Wall, Body Worship, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Bucky Worships the Fuck Out of Steve, Bucky and Clint Have a BROTP moment, Bucky uses his strength, Captain America: The First Avenger, Cock Worship, Deaf Clint Barton, Established Past Relationship, Established Relationship, Feels, Frustration, M/M, Memory Loss, Mutual Pining, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Pining, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Sexual Frustration, Smut, Soulmates, Sparring, memory recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 04:49:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2455310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhCaptainMyCaptain/pseuds/OhCaptainMyCaptain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“Oh God… Oh… Buck…”</em>
</p><p>Steve says his name differently the moment Bucky gets his mouth on him. Breathless… Desperate… Bucky’s heard his name by moaned, be gasped, be screamed - in a number of different voices, by a number of different people. But none of them say his name the way Steve does.</p><p>Steve whimpers. He’s always been that way. Maybe it’s due to the fear of getting caught, or maybe that’s just how he is in general... If they could truly be alone, if there was no one around to risk hearing them, or catching them, or outing them… If Steve had the freedom to be as loud or as quiet as he wanted to be; could choose it… How would he say Bucky’s name?  Would it come out like a sob, or a prayer, or maybe still a secret? Would it awaken the Heavens with its volume, or be whispered just for Bucky’s ears? Would Steve look him in the eyes while his lips formed around the syllables? Or would they roll up into his head without control?</p><p>Bucky wishes he knew. That he could know. But since it’s not an option, he’ll always just be grateful for being able to hear Steve say his name like this in general – and when Steve whimpers it, that’s the way Bucky likes best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way You Say My Name

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt: Bucky Barnes wrapping pre-serum Steve's legs over his shoulders and sucking him off against the wall like he's starving for it and all Steve can do is tangle his skinny fingers on his brown silky hair and try to stifle his moans**
> 
> I tried to make this less than 10,000 words. I was SO close, sonofabitch. Oh well. I was really frustrated with how this started but then by the time I finished, I was really happy with it, haha. This prompt got really popular feedback on my Tumblr - lots of people seemed to want to see it, so I hope this pleases you all :) As usual, this is un-beta'd, so all mistakes are mine. I'll be re-reading it later a few times at least, so I'll fix any mistakes I find before the day's over.
> 
> My [Tumblr](http://ohcaptainmycaptain1918.tumblr.com/) is basically a place for Stucky, Sebastian Stan, Chris Evans, Marvel, smut, or inappropriate humour - so if you feel like coming and hanging out with me, please do <3

**1939**

“ _Oh God… Oh… Buck…_ ”

Steve says his name differently the moment Bucky gets his mouth on him. Breathless… Desperate… Like Bucky is his only lifeline and Steve’s at his mercy; as if Bucky alone is the only thing that’ll provide him with each and every gulp of air that will follow. Bucky’s heard his name by moaned, be gasped, be _screamed_ \- in a number of different voices, by a number of different people. But none of them say his name the way Steve does.

Steve whimpers. He’s always been that way. Maybe it’s due to the fear of getting caught, or maybe that’s just how he is in general – Bucky wishes their circumstances were different so he could test out that theory. If they could truly be alone… If there was no one around to risk hearing them, or catching them, or outing them… If Steve had the freedom to be as loud or as quiet as he _wanted_ to be; could choose it… How would he say Bucky’s name?  Would it come out like a sob, or a prayer, or maybe still a secret? Would it awaken the Heavens with its volume, or be whispered just for Bucky’s ears? Would Steve look him in the eyes while his lips formed around the syllables? Or would they roll up into his head without control?

Bucky wishes he knew. That he _could_ know. But since it’s not an option, he’ll always just be grateful for being able to hear Steve say his name like this in _general_ – and when Steve whimpers it, that’s the way Bucky likes best.

Steve’s skin is white like porcelain and tastes like salt. Over the years, there isn’t a single inch of it that Bucky hasn’t mapped out and claimed with his tongue. His lover’s body is a canvas of knobby joints, blue veins pushing against transparent flesh, and chicken bones. If Bucky were half the artist Steve is, he’d feel a little jealous of God for being able to take credit for something so painstakingly perfect – when Bucky wants Steve to be nobody’s but his. True beauty lies in the _imperfections_ that make a thing perfect. In this way, there is nothing about Steve Rogers that Bucky would ever want to change, save for the ailments and difficulties that such physical imperfections force upon Steve – _his_ Steve – time and time again. Sickness should never be allowed to touch his best friend, not ever.

Sometimes, Bucky wonders if Steve only ever falls ill so frequently because God realized He made a mistake, and wants one of His angels back. It wouldn’t be the first time Bucky’s sworn up and down that Steve’s too amazing for this world; that his heart is too shiny a shade of gold to be human. But he’s a selfish bastard, Bucky is – because he’d stand defiant in the face of God Himself before he’d be willing to give Steve up like that. God had His chance, and even if angels only deserve to be with other angels – _and Bucky knows he’ll certainly never have a halo of his own_ – Bucky’s in too deep to give Steve up without a fight. He’s _been_ in deep for as long as he can remember.

“ _Bucky… Mm… I… Ah, oh fuck…_ ”

There are times when Bucky just can’t fathom the things he feels for Steve in the deepest recesses of his heart. Days where he takes one single look at him and it feels like it flattens to his ribcage like wallpaper, as strongly and as powerfully as the air getting sucked out of his lungs. It isn’t fair – that they can’t love each other anywhere but in the privacy of their apartment… That one day they’ll be expected to settle down elsewhere and raise two separate families that should really just be _one_ … Have children who resemble their beautiful mothers, instead of growing up with Steve’s eyes and Bucky’s smile.

It isn’t fair that Steve’s so _goddamn beautiful_ and yet he never sees it… Bucky doesn’t know _how_ he can’t see it… How can someone be the fucking _world_ to another person and yet feel like nothing but a speck of dust themselves? It’s insulting, it really is, that Steve would even entertain the idea that he’s no more important than dust – not when Bucky’s certain the boy himself hung the moon.

“ _Please… I can’t… Oh, Buck…_ ”

Bucky moans; just a fraction of a sound, right in the base of his throat. He never wants to hear another word again if it isn’t Steve saying his name the way he does when he’s like this… Legs wrapped around Bucky’s head… Fingers trapped in the maze of dark hair, slightly greasy from leftover tonic… Skinny, frail chest expanding and constricting almost _violently_ as he pants… Cock, pulsing and leaking between Bucky’s stretched lips…

He’s so tiny – _Goddamn_ , he’s so fucking tiny; drives Bucky insane. He likes when he can get Steve crowded up against one of their paper-thin walls because his own body becomes a cage; traps Steve where he stands, with nowhere else to go. Not like Steve ever _wants_ to be elsewhere – his fingers grip just as tightly and his lips mold to Bucky’s with just as much palpable need.

Steve thinks his body is too thin, too gangly. He wishes he had a few heads on his height and could add muscle and fat with the same ease that Bucky can. Bucky doesn’t understand why in the world Steve would ever want to change a _thing_ about himself. Sure, the almost constant state of sickness – _that_ , he gets. But simply speaking in terms of the outer shell? Steve’s body makes Bucky feel like he’s going crazy. _Christ_ , he’s so smooth and soft… A flawless mixture of _pretty_ with _masculine_ that Bucky never even knew a man could be, until the first time he’d ever used his hands to slide Steve’s shirt from his shoulders, or his slacks down his thighs.

Everything he touches feels as though it was _made_ to fit perfectly in Bucky’s hands. And Steve’s height, Steve’s weight – it’s all perfect, too; perfect for maneuvering, perfect for _lifting_. Normally, Steve fights being manhandled as vehemently as a cornered alley cat, but it’s a thing he _craves_ when their door is closed and their clothes come off. Then he can’t get enough of being thrown around, or positioned exactly the way Bucky wants him.

No matter how badly Steve wants him, no matter how passionately he keens under his breath when their tongues battle for dominancy and they try to touch anywhere – _everywhere, it’s never enough_ – Bucky’s certain that Steve will never be able to hold a candle to how strongly Bucky craves him in return. And if he has him up against the wall, there usually comes a point where thinking shut downs and all Bucky is driven by are the primal instincts making his head spin and his cock hard.

That’s how Steve will always wind up hoisted into the air; bony back sliding up the wall as Bucky hooks his arms beneath his legs, hands clutching the sides of his belly. He’ll go _up, up, up_ \- and Bucky stares up at his face the entire time in kind, with a gaze as black as night; half-masked under heavy, sluggish lids… He breathes through parted lips and flushes high on the apples of his cheeks, while he raises Steve up above, _where angels should be_. So when Steve looks back down, he _knows_ that he deserves to be elevated… That when Bucky works his legs onto his shoulders so he can bury his face between Steve’s thighs and swallow his cock, _this_ is Steve’s pedestal, and Bucky wants to be nothing but his faithful servant.

There’s nothing for Steve to do when he’s like this but to let it happen. It only ever takes seconds for his inner thighs to start trembling as they squeeze sporadically against Bucky’s ears; the back of his jaw, the curve of his neck. Bucky doesn’t have the heart to tell him to quiet down, but it’s never much of a risk anyways, because Steve knows well enough by now. It’s why Bucky’s name is only ever exhaled in whispers or whimpers, when what he _really_ wants are screams and sobs. Still… soft is nice… Soft is like cotton candy at Coney Island, or feathers on the wings of angels. Bucky can make do with soft; still cherish it like treasure, even if it might as well be _buried_ treasure sometimes.

Bucky’s always been a talker in bed. He’ll choke on air and whisper filthy things in Steve’s ear while he slides in and out of him, from the first thrust until the last person comes. Steve’s the artist with a pencil, whereas Bucky paints a picture with words. Steve always shatters so fucking sweetly at the images Bucky makes him conjure up in his mind. But when he’s like this, holding Steve on his shoulders and using his hands to keep the blond pinned safely to the wall, all he can do is _breathe_ … Breathe in the sounds, the tastes, the textures, and fill his lungs and body up with Steve, and the way he says his name - _Bucky… Bucky… God, yes, Buck…_

He’s never been the submissive type, but Bucky would crawl on his hands and knees for Steve Rogers if he was told to. He’d beg and say thank you, even if it was denied to him. If Steve ever wanted to pound Bucky’s ass until he bled, he’d bend himself over the nearest piece of furniture and spread himself open, whining Steve’s name like a fucking blessing. Getting his mouth on Steve has always been enough to tip him into this spiral, where Bucky becomes this gigantic, _needy_ mess of desires. He wants Steve more than life itself, but what he wants even _more_ is to be so _good_ for him. And Bucky’s strongest weapon is that he’s the one with the experience; he’s the one who’s helped Steve discover his own body and how fucking incredible Bucky can make him feel. So to _be_ good means to make _Steve_ feel good – and Bucky knows a million and _one_ ways to do that.

 _God_ , fucking _God_ , Steve feels amazing in his mouth. He’s not that big but he fattens up impressively when Bucky makes him hard; always leaving Bucky salivating. It’s _just_ long enough that it almost nudges the back of Bucky’s throat when he swallows all five inches and pushes his nose into the wiry curls sprinkled on Steve’s pelvis. But it’s always an inch or so shy of actually making Bucky gag, which is exactly the right length for him. He knows Steve’s always been a little self-conscious about his size, but _no, fuck no, he’s insane_ … He’s the perfect length for Bucky to be take him all, _every time_ , and maximize Steve’s pleasure without any hindrances. Like everything else about Steve, this part of him was practically _made_ to fit between Bucky’s lips.

He sucks Steve off like he can never get enough – quick bobs of the head and greedy sucks between hollowed-out cheeks, because Bucky wants Steve’s come; wants to taste it and have it filling up his belly, like the liquid would warm his insides better than the shitty heating in their apartment. Above him, he feels his lover squirming as much as physically possible against the wall. Steve rolls the back of his head along the wall whenever he arches his neck, and with his hands, he alternates between tugging without finesse on Bucky’s hair, or pulling and then _pushing_ on his head to take control of the pace.

When he feels the sharp pulls that strain the strands of hair on his scalp, Bucky’s quick breaths are interjected with small, helpless groans – chipping away at him and only making him go crazier, until he’s sucking Steve off so fast and sloppy that there’s spit running over his chin, down his throat, and making Steve’s balls glisten. The closer the blond gets to bursting, the harder it becomes for him to stifle his sounds. But he fights it and he always wins – going so far sometimes as to bite his bottom lip until the poor thing bleeds.

The only thing Steve will give away are those high-pitched, barely audible whimpers… Shaky, dire _Bucky_ ’s and _please, oh, oh my God, more, more, yeah, please_ – until he starts to grow impossibly harder against Bucky’s tongue as he straddles the precipice. Bucky knows Steve’s body as well as he knows his own and can tell the signs instantly when his best friend is about to tip over and come for him. There’s about a five second window; in that window, Steve loses the ability to form words. His legs wiggle uselessly atop Bucky’s shoulders, and he whines out in a strained voice, “ _Mm, mm, mm…!_ ” in time with the movements of the brunet fucking his mouth along his dick.

He’s the most silent when he comes, _always._ He’ll suddenly grab Bucky’s head and hug it to his crotch, forcing Bucky in place with his lips hugging around every inch of him and kissing the skin of Steve’s pelvic bone. If he _was_ any bigger, this would definitely get Bucky choking every time. Instead, all Bucky needs to do is revel in the feel of Steve’s body closing in around him as Steve clenches his thighs and goes rigid; fisting his hair so roughly that it feels like he’s about to rip a handful right out the moment his balls swell and the tip of his cock starts pumping his climax down Bucky’s throat.

Bucky is the yin to Steve’s yang, because whereas Steve does nothing but shudder silently when he goes off like this, this is the time when _Bucky_ moans. He only moans twice – maybe a _little_ louder than playing it stark safe, but hardly loud enough to travel beyond the confines of their apartment. He moans the instant that first spurt of come splatters against the back of his throat, and then again when he gets his first good _taste_ of it.

Steve’s hot and bitter on his taste buds, but Bucky would _live_ off of it if given the chance. Nothing gets him worked up quite like the combined sensations of gulping down Steve’s orgasm, feeling that rock-hard prick throbbing and jolting between his tongue and the roof of his mouth, and the way Steve’s taut body locks all around his head. If he’s still wearing his slacks, his own cock will be straining uncomfortably against his fly. If he’s not, it bobs straight out in the air, leaking enough precome that it drips right from the slit and trickles to the floor.

Steve only starts breathing again when the pleasure crashing over him eventually subsides, and then the poor boy is gasping loudly and trying to make up for it all. Once or twice, it’s pushed him into an asthma attack; most of the time, Bucky can carefully lower him down so Steve can wrap his shaking legs around his waist instead and let the brunet hug their bodies together; petting his hair and whispering to him soothingly until Steve’s heart rate slows and the threat passes.

Then Steve’s turning his face in and kissing him, and though the blond never confirms or denies it, Bucky _hopes_ Steve can taste himself on his tongue. By this point, it’s Steve who’s calling the shots; Bucky’s just along for the ride. He’ll do whatever Steve wants him to do, so long as he can make his best friend feel good. If that’s keeping him in his arms and fucking him right where he stands, or lowering Steve to the ground so the blond can drop to his knees and get his own lips around Bucky, or moving things to their bedroom so they can make love on the floor where the boards don’t squeak quite as badly as their cots…

Steve needs only to name it, and the world, Bucky will give him.

* * *

 **1943**

Someone rescues Bucky from the darkest pits of Hell. He wears Steve’s face, but not his body. He speaks in Steve’s voice, but stands too tall. He’s _here_ , when Steve’s not supposed to be. Steve’s supposed to be in Brooklyn, he’s supposed to be safe – and he’s supposed to be short and thin and perfectly imperfect.

Someone walks by Bucky’s side and returns him to the rest of the 107th, to safety. He smiles at Bucky the way Steve did, but his shoulders are too broad. His eyes are the colour of the sky, like Bucky remembers them being - but he strides with a straighter spine, a more confident step. The man before him is no longer perfectly imperfect. Just perfectly _perfect._

Bucky doesn’t know this man.

Except…

This someone gets him alone, after sharing drinks at a bar… Where Bucky pretends to smile and pretends that nothing’s changed and _That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight_ (Bucky follows that up by saying that he’s following _him_ back into the war, and _not_ asking, ‘Where did _he_ go? What did you do to _my_ Steve?’)… This someone clasps one hand to Bucky’s neck just like Steve used to, and he looks deep into Bucky’s eyes just like Steve used to… But the angle’s all wrong. Bucky shouldn’t have to look _up_ , but he is.

Ironic… It’s so fucking ironic. This is the price Bucky has to pay for having been willing to stand up to God; for being so adamant and willing to keep one of His angels from Him. Having to gaze _up_ at Steve now seems fitting. Bucky just doesn’t like it. Because if this really isSteve, then he no longer is _his_ Steve. The rest of the world finally sees everything that Bucky’s always known was there, just packaged differently.

If this really is Steve, then he’s no longer Bucky’s Steve because he’s finally gotten his wings and has become the angel he was always meant to be – the angel that Bucky _knew_ was there, but was never truly prepared for.

Words are whispered, for they still have to keep things a secret, and then lips touch his. Bucky feels like he’s betraying Steve by _kissing_ this new Steve, because _this isn’t right, you’re not the guy I knew, who_ are _you…?_ Hands are bigger; seem to frame his entire face when they cup his cheeks. When this man steps forward, it’s _Bucky_ whose back is suddenly to the wall and it’s _his_ body that’s suddenly caged in – and Bucky doesn’t like it. He kisses back because his heart is aching and desperate to feel that old connection – that somehow, he can get the old Steve back by giving himself over to this new one – but panic grips him when he feels those big hands lower to grab his thighs and attempt to lift _him_ up.

“Stop!” Bucky shouts. He feels like he’s about to vomit. For so long – _for what felt like forever_ – he’d been strapped to Zola’s table and lost his grasp on what was reality and what wasn’t. The _only_ thing that remained a constant for him, the _only truth_ , was that Steve was real… He was real, he was _Bucky’s_ , and he was waiting back home for him.

This is too much. It leaves Bucky terrifyingly unsure of whether or not _any_ of what happened was actually _real._ Because there’s the absent sound of lungs rattling with Steve’s breaths; there are muscles where there were never muscles before, and an ease to this body’s movements that _his_ Steve never mastered. He tried to ask how this was possible – this impossible _change_ – and he’d tried his best to understand when it was explained to him, but he still doesn’t get it. And since he doesn’t get it, there’s still the risk that none of this would prove to be real.

Steve would still be _Steve_ and Bucky, as it were, would still be strapped to that slab and praying for a death that he knows would never come.

But none of that would matter because Steve would _still be Steve._ He’d still be _his_.

But this man, he stops anyways – just as easily as the old Steve would’ve the moment Bucky said no to something. He must confuse the situation, think it has to do with what Bucky’s just been through, because he just pulls the brunet into a hug and murmurs soothing words into his ear. He tells Bucky he missed him; that he was so scared they’d never see each other again.

“I missed you, too,” Bucky replies, but his voice is hollow and his eyes stare ahead, unfocused. He has to force himself to speak in the past tense.

The _truly_ scary part is when this man moves them away from the wall and lowers them down to his cot, coercing Bucky down with a gentle touch. There’s something almost _desperate_ in it; like this person needs Bucky about as much as Bucky needs the idea of _his_ Steve. Bucky goes, and they resume kissing – and on their sides, lying face-to-face, it feels a little more believable because Bucky can trick his mind into thinking that the blond in front of him is still a foot shorter… Over a hundred pounds lighter…

His lips are warm and firm, and yet yielding all the same against Bucky’s. He parts them almost immediately, as if to silently plead with Bucky to slip his tongue inside. So Bucky does, because he’s still acting on autopilot. He _tastes_ like Steve, and those soft little sighs _sound_ like Steve… Soft, _still_ like cotton candy at Coney Island, or the feathers on the wings of angels… But Bucky refuses to be completely convinced.

Then the man says it – or more so, he _whimpers_ it.

Whimpers it, right at the moment that they shift, so Bucky can bend one leg and slot one thigh between parted legs… Press it against an erection _far too big to be his Steve’s_ … Those big hands clutch to him painfully and the mouth against his moves, and out spills, just above a whisper, “ _Buck…_ ”

And Bucky’s heart stops. He stops kissing back, eyes flying open and growing wide, fast. He stares at the face before him in shock, as his brows crease just the slightest bit and tug up in the center. The man who wears this new version of Steve’s face grows blurry in his vision as tears film over his grey orbs, because… _No one_ says his name the way his Steve does. He could never mistake it.

“Buck…?” the man with _Steve’s voice_ asks. Bucky can hear the sudden note of concern. He feels like he’s about to black out. Distantly, he hears that voice say, “Buck, what’s wrong? Talk to me… Bucky, _hey_ …”

“Steve…?” Bucky hears himself whisper. There’s no way, it’s just not possible… But the way he said Bucky’s name – it’s one of a kind, like a fingerprint.

There’s warmth on his face. That big hand is touching his cheek again. Over the bridge of his nose, tears are now falling freely and wetting the pillow beneath Bucky’s temple. He doesn’t even think he’s blinked once.

“Yeah, Bucky, it’s… It’s me, it’s Steve… Never leavin’ you again, _never_ … Thought I’d lost you, I… M’so sorry… Fuckin’ love you so much, Buck…”

He’s being kissed again. It’s more insistent this time; even more frantic and even more desperate. Bucky’s eyes squeeze shut and he finds himself suddenly crying pained, pathetic sounds against the man’s lips – but he’s kissing back, too, and he’s bringing up a hand to thread his fingers into golden hair. Golden, like the sun… Like _his_ Steve’s hair had been.

This _is_ his Steve… somewhere beneath the surface; Bucky has to believe it. He’s being kissed and touched like he’s still _needed_ , so maybe… maybe he is. Maybe Steve’s not ready to fly away from him just yet. A tiny sliver of his heart chips away when he realizes that he’ll never be able to lift Steve in his arms again, but maybe he can open up _himself_ to being lifted… Giving over to Steve and _trusting_ Steve to take care of him; to not drop him or let him fall.

He keeps crying and he keeps kissing, as the man who calls himself Steve – and _is his Steve_ , _and hopefully always will be_ – breaks down Bucky’s walls the way he always knew how… Touches him until Bucky’s hard and hurting…

And then Bucky rolls onto his back, Steve climbing over him – and for the first time in his life, he lets _himself_ be caged and elevated.

* * *

 **2015**

James’s knuckles hurt. They collide with the firm punching bag – _wham! Wham! Wham-wham!_ – over and over, having been given no reprieve for the last hour or two. His hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail, but the strands of his bangs keep falling in his face; hands, too busy at the moment to move them out of his eyes and tuck them behind his ears. It’s too long right now; too long to feel like Bucky Barnes… Alternative, too short to feel like _whoever he currently is._ Maybe that’s James; maybe that’s still partially the Asset. He likes to believe that it’s the former.

For now, he’ll have to make do. That in itself is sort of comforting in its frustration – he gets the feeling that he used to be really good at that, _making do_ ; like he’s been _making do_ since long before the fall or Zola or Hydra.

Making do, like… living on the same floor as the man on the bridge. He has a name, and James knows it’s _Steve_. He likes the way that name sounds… _Steve_ … It rolls off of his tongue smoothly and tastes nice. Soft, like… _something_ he thinks he may remember, from a place he’d probably been to a lot, but… the details are still fuzzy. It’s only been six months since he’d let Steve find him – when James had trusted himself not to be _too_ much of a threat, because _don’t hurt him, you can’t hurt him_ … This was something that felt intrinsic to him, as if ingrained into James’s being.

Then things suddenly seemed to escalate and not even three months in, _just_ as he and Steve were breaking through and making baby steps of progress, some big disaster happened in New York and suddenly Steve was moving from his – _their?_ – DC apartment. Finding out and thinking that Steve was _leaving_ him made James explode in a way he hadn’t before; metal fingers wrapping around a thick, pale throat and James didn’t know whether he was about to _kill_ him or start _begging_ him not to go. All he knew was that he’d been terrified – a feeling even stronger than any past instance of being strapped to a chair and feeling electricity melt his brain.

Apparently, that’d never been a consideration in Steve’s mind, though. He’d actually come into James’s room that night to gingerly approach the topic and gauge how he would feel about going _with_ Steve. The answer was complicated… James didn’t want to be around other people yet, because he’d trusted the rest of the world about as much as he trusted _himself._ But Steve… Steve he trusted, for whatever reason. And more importantly, he needed to make sure nothing bad happened to him.

Steve acted like he could take care of himself, but James knew better. He knew, even if Steve didn’t. Steve needed James – needed James to take care of him, even if he didn’t necessarily _want_ it all the time. He can’t shake the feeling that this had always been a thing between them, too.

So Steve went and James followed. Together, they’d moved into what was called the ‘Avengers Tower’, owned by the son of the man James himself had killed. He’d done his research when trying to figure out his identity; learned what the _internet_ was and used it, looking up things like _Bucky Barnes_ and _Sergeant James Barnes_ and _Steve Rogers_. So, James knew all about the information that the Spider had leaked to the general public, which meant that Tony Stark _must’ve_ known that he was responsible for the death of his parents. Still – _and James would never understand this_ – he let Steve bring him in. James hasn’t reached a point yet where he’s said ‘thank you.’ He and Stark are only _just_ starting to learn how to make easier conversation with each other; usually, while the billionaire is making adjustments to James’s left arm. He seems to be about the only person there – save for Steve – who _doesn’t_ look at it like it’s a deadly weapon. Stark calls it ‘beautiful’. James hears that word and can only ever seem to see Steve’s face.

For a while, everyone else there had looked at him with narrowed eyes and stiff features. If he was in the room, they kept their sights on him like he might attack the second they looked away. It hadn’t helped that on _his_ end, James usually spent every moment he was in a room with anyone other than Steve, eyeing for every possible exit and grabbing for his concealed blades at the smallest thing that went _bump._

They didn’t trust him – and as well they shouldn’t have. James had to give them credit; they were definitely smart people in that sense. But that tense discomfort was mutual, so James spent much of the first month in the Tower holed away in his personal apartment, located on Steve’s floor. Any other time, and they could either find him wailing on punching bags in one of the gyms, or trailing in the background behind Steve – frowning solemnly to counter all of the (too) easygoing smiles the Captain always seemed to be casting his way.

Sometimes, James had – _and still does_ – considered leaving. It was hard to shake the feeling that Steve Rogers deserved better than having someone like _him_ in his life. Steve seemed like nothing but light, whereas James felt like he had a shadow permanently following him; always threatening to swallow him whole, a thing he’d never be rid of. But any time he made to leave, he could never do it. On the odd night where he actually succeeded in escaping out his window, not even an hour could pass before he was reluctantly climbing right back in. Steve was both a beacon of something warm and forgiving, and a goddamn _plague_ in James’s life.

It was as if he _was_ the light, and James was a moth to the flame. He couldn’t be rid of the fucking guy, even if he wanted to be. The inexplicable fear – the _anxiety_ – that flowed through his veins the second he put distance between them always stemmed right back to that _thing_ that James _knew_ but couldn’t put his finger on: that his _purpose_ in life was to keep his eye on Steve.

But Steve confuses him – or at least, he _had._ Because there was no guide, no set instructions that came with getting your stolen memories back. For the first few weeks, when James had still mostly been the _Asset_ – finally breaking free of Hydra’s iron grip – a lot of his memories had flooded back in overwhelming handfuls. He remembered the details of the _cold years_ first. Those were undoubtedly the hardest memories to accept and push through. Six months later and James is _still_ trying his best to come to terms with all he’s responsible for… For the blood permanently staining his hands, both flesh and metal.

In a frustrating turn of events, by the time James had surrendered himself to Steve, the memories had drastically slowed. He could go weeks at a time without remembering a _thing_ , and then suddenly have a few days where a lot came rushing back. After the Winter Soldier’s memories, next came the war. Sometimes he’d see snippets of things from his childhood interspersed in between. Once in a while, he got _fractions_ of memories that involved Steve’s face, but it was like his mind was purposely repressing the parts of the old _Bucky Barnes’s_ life that seemed to revolve around Steve Rogers.

James can only guess that (from the large chunk of his life that he’s still yet to get back) there was an awfully _huge_ slice of his life devoted to this man - which unfortunately means that the timeline of what James remembers sequentially is filled with some rather _huge_ holes. He’s missing more than fifty percent of his life, and he’d been _weeks_ without his last new memory. So when he’s around Steve, he finds himself staring too closely, with confusion in his eyes and a frown on his face.

Steve smiles at him as though James himself is what the Captain considers _home_. He never pressures James to move into his own apartment, but he _does_ always keep the front door unlocked at night. If – _when_ – James inevitably has a nightmare, he goes to Steve – even if he isn’t sure why. Steve will never push for James to crawl into bed with him if James chooses to sleep on the floor, but on the odd night when he _does_ pad into the dark room and heads straight for the bed, Steve just makes room and lifts the covers as a silent offering. He’ll always scooch over to the cool, untouched of the mattress so that James can lie down in the warmth his body had created, like Steve had been getting it ready just for him.

Steve carefully doesn’t touch him because on some nights, James doesn’t _want_ to be touched. Others, he’ll turn his back to the bigger man and then reach behind him and grab his wrist without saying a word. Tugging it so Steve’s arm slides over him, he stares ahead at the wall while he feels the blond move eagerly and snuggle up behind him, holding James close. He’s almost certain without having to _look_ that Steve’s always smiling when it happens. It’s unsettling – how _right_ it feels in Steve’s arms; just as right as when James mutters tonelessly, “Face away from me,” so _he_ can be the one to mold his body along the curve of Steve’s back and hug them together.

He could just _ask_ Steve, but James is scared of what the answer could be. He refuses to admit it out loud, but he thinks what scares him the most is the possibility that the answer all of the signs are pointing to _won’t_ turn out to be the answer he actually gets. Deep down, James has a heart that seems to beat only for Steve – it’s the only thing that makes any sense amidst the destruction and confusion going on all of the time in his head. Steve’s the one thing James understands, while somehow not getting him _at all._  

All he knows is that he’s alive, his heart beats, he’s a monster, _and he must be in love with Steve Rogers._ He just doesn’t want to take the risk of finding out that it’s not reciprocated. James is having a difficult enough time embracing feeling love _at all_ after so many years – he’s not quite ready for it to venture into the _unrequited_ territory yet; doesn’t think he could stomach it.

James’s knuckles hurt. If the left hand could still feel, he’s confident he’d be smarting there, too. But he never stops thrusting his fists forward, throwing punches. He’s angry – _God help him_ , he’s so fucking angry. He can’t remember the last time he felt like this. It’s partially due to _Steve_ and partially due to the fact that he’s tired of not understanding why he feels the way he does these days.

“Buck?” he suddenly hears Steve call over to him. James doesn’t have the heart to tell him to stop calling him that; that he isn’t the man Steve remembers or wishes he was. He doesn’t want to do anything to shoot himself in the foot or make Steve upset with him. Fuck, _why_ must Steve practically be the air he breathes? Sometimes, he wishes he could hold his breath forever.

But it doesn’t sound right, when Steve says his name like that. Something feels like it’s missing – like, if Steve could just say it a little differently, things would all finally make sense. But James doesn’t know how to get from A to B in those terms; he’s missing those vital memories that alone provide the answer. It’d be so much fucking easier if Steve could just take pity on him and piece it together _for_ him; just sit James down and say, ‘Look, this was how it used to be; this is what we were…’

James suspects that Steve treads just as carefully, though; operating under that exact same fear of pointing the barrel of a gun to his foot and pulling the trigger, unraveling months’ worth of progress.

His fists falter, and for a moment, James stills. He considers turning to look at him, but he’s still angry so he doesn’t; just pauses and then asks, “What do you want?” before going back to punching. Admittedly, the blows are a _little_ gentler now.

He _knows_ what Steve’s here to talk about. He can hear the door to the gym’s entrance close and then footsteps coming just a bit closer. When Steve speaks again, he sounds like he’s standing at James’s five. “How was the mission?” he asks conversationally. _He’s always been a horrible actor_ – James knows this, even without the memories to back it up. If this is Steve’s way of trying to subtly coax a confession out of James by his own admission, then he prays to God that Steve will never consider espionage as a career change.

It’s hard not to snort scornfully. Steve couldn’t have known that he had nearly walked into the room after Barton had pulled Steve aside, but he _had;_ stood around the corner and peered out as he watched the archer sign and tell the Captain, “We need to talk about Barnes.”

Steve had frowned; touching the four fingers of his right hand to his forehead before lowering it, closing his fist, and sticking out only his thumb and pinky as he replied, “Why?”

Barton started to sign again, but James had already turned away and stared ahead; heard as far as, “Something sort of… _happened_ on the mission that’s probably worth you knowing about.” Then James slipped out of the room, as stealthily as he came, noticed by no one. That’s when he’d gone straight to the gym and began taking out his aggression on the innocent punching bags.

So yeah, he knew what Steve wanted to talk about. That didn’t mean _he_ wanted to talk about it, though. “Fine,” he answers simply. _Leave it at that; don’t pry, Rogers. You won’t like what I have to say._

Steve’s fucking stubborn, though. James sees him making his way around him from his peripherals until he’s standing at James’s two. He _reeks_ of concern – how hilariously ironic. James’s right fist strikes the heavy bag, and at the same time, he shoots the blond a quick, sharp look. Steve’s frowning but his baby blues are gentle. James wants to aim his next punch right at Steve’s _face_ , but he also wants to… _kiss_ that face? _Fuck_ Steve for making this so confusing; fuck him to Hell.

“I _said_ it was fine,” he says pointedly.

Steve tries to feign nonchalance and gives a half-shouldered shrug. “Okay, was just curious,” he replies. He watches James keep punching and then adds, “Just thought that maybe, if there was anything you wanted to talk to someone about, you’d want to know that I’m always here to listen.”

 _Now_ James sneers acidly with a small, disbelieving shake of his head. He starts punching the bag harder, _quicker_ , and replies back, “Okay, _alright_ , let’s _talk._ Whaddaya wanna talk about, hmm? Lemme guess… ‘ _Golly_ , Buck – y’know, Agent Barton might’ve said a little somethin’ to me earlier and I just wasn’t sure if perhaps you needed a shoulder to cry on, or a _hand_ to hold? Wanna gather everyone else, get into a merry little circle, and sing Kumbaya, Buck?’” He starts getting a little breathless as his face grows red – with growing rage and exertion. All the while, Steve just regards him patiently as he starts throwing his fists so brutally that he can faintly hear the panels on his metal arm recalibrating with every few blows.

“‘Maybe _that’ll_ help you remember more things, yeah?’” James continues in a cruel, mocking tone. “‘Remember things like – oh, _I dunno_ , my _dumb ass_ jumpin’ on goddamn _grenades_ , or tryin’ to fuckin’ _kill myself_ flying down a jet, or not stayin’ where I goddamn fuckin’ _promised_ I’d stay when you went off to war! You remember _that,_ Buck – _Bucky, ole’ buddy, ole’ pal!?_ You remember me goin’ off and riskin’ my neck with _no_ regard for the danger I put myself in – remember _that? Goddamn_ , that’s so funny – _what a funny story! Ha-ha-fuckin’-ha!_ ’”

On the last word, his bionic fist crashes into the bag, snapping it from its hinge and sending the thing flying. James watches it hurl across the room, then burst open when it smashes into the wall. He’s scowling, exhausted and flushed and panting. He can feel Steve still staring, and eventually he meets his gaze. Shaking his head, he holds his hands up and finishes, “How’s my aim? Pretty _on the mark_ , I’d say, huh? I was always a pretty straight shooter, wasn’t I?”

None of that little outburst seems to have gotten under Steve’s skin at _all_. It makes James wants to strangle the ever-loving _shit_ out of him. The blond just averts his gaze down to the ground with a nod, before looking back up and calmly joking, “Was _wondering_ how long until you remembered all of that; certainly knew you’d tear a strip off of me when it finally happened.”

James walks straight past him and goes to unwrap his right hand. “Well hallelujah, praise the Lord – James Barnes _remembered something_. Leave me alone, Steve.”

“Barton was a little surprised,” Steve continues lightly, “said no one trained him for therapy breakthroughs. He was kidding, of course.”

“ _Steve_ , what part of ‘leave me alone’ did you not understand?” James snaps. But still, Steve doesn’t leave. He knows he _does_ sort of owe Barton an apology, though. _Eventually_. Not right now. And given what had happened, Steve’s the _last_ person he wants to answer to right now.

Steve had convinced the others that letting James tag along on small, inconsequential missions would be a good way to keep the ex-Assassin occupied. James wouldn’t say it, but he _had_ been starting to suffer from cabin fever. After so many years being useful at only _one_ thing, _no longer_ doing that thing was making him feel like perhaps he was broken. Furthermore, if James could prove himself over time – not have any slip-ups and successfully aid on these missions without anything going wrong – then Steve could perhaps have the rest of the Avengers’ support when finally coming clean to S.H.I.E.L.D. about the Winter Soldier’s whereabouts.

Yes, there will most likely have to be a court case, but Steve seems confident that James can’t be held responsible for the things he’d been forced to do and endure by Hydra – much like the way he seemed so confident that James was ready to go back out into the field and wield a _weapon_ of all things, without unexpectedly turning on one of his teammates and putting a bullet in their brain. James wishes he was that confident in himself these days, but he _trusts Steve_ , so he’d done it – even if only to make him proud.

The missions really _were_ small – laughably so – and didn’t even really _need_ James there. If anything, he was just an extra body taking up unnecessary space. But what wound up happening was that, the only two people who really agreed to take him on were Agents Romanoff and Barton. The Asset had history with Natalia, but _Natasha?_ She and James were strangers to each other, and she trusted him the _least_ of everyone in the Tower. But when she allowed him to tag along, she conversed with him in Russian, and something about that was sickly comforting. Aside from that, James did virtually _nothing_ on those missions.

Times when he’d tag along with Barton were a little less tense because the archer seemed to have a certain kind of _sympathy_ for him right from the moment they’d met. Despite his almost complete deafness, Barton’s diction was flawless, and sometimes it made James forget that he had to be able to _see_ James talking back in order to read his lips and know what he was saying in return.

In the beginning, that was mostly _nothing_ – James didn’t have much he’d wanted to say, nor did he know sign language. Gradually, on nights where he couldn’t sleep and didn’t feel like waking up Steve, he’d scour the internet and read, watch videos; take in as much information as he could so that the next time he and Barton were saddled together, he could raise his flesh and metal hands and start signing the gestures that went along with his spoken words.

When Barton’s face broke out into a shocked, _touched_ grin, he became the second person James ever smiled back at in the last six months. (The first being Steve, _when the blond’s back was turned._ ) By their third mission together, they’d sat in a dingy, abandoned room and ate in silence, until Barton cleared his throat, lowered his can of beans, and admitted to James that he knew what it felt like to have someone else take over your mind and turn you into a person – a _machine_ – that you _weren’t_. James simply listened and said nothing as the archer explained what he’d been put through at the hands of someone named _Loki_ , and when he’d lied down to sleep that night, he felt a _little_ closer to Agent Barton – even if only because he now knew that someone else _understood._

Something had happened on this last mission, though. It hadn’t been anything out of the ordinary – except that Barton had stretched his neck out a _little_ too far and almost got himself hurt. It wasn’t anything that could’ve even really damaged him, but it was enough to set James off. He’d found himself unreasonably _mad_ at Barton for the rest of the evening, until they were finally alone and Barton had asked what James’s _deal_ was.

He’d started off calm… sort of. Unable to explain the anger surging through him, he’d passionately gone off on a rant about how _stupid_ Barton’s actions had been and how he could’ve went and got his stupid ass injured. Barton had watched with growing confusion as James’s talking escalated into _shouting_ , until he was suddenly accusing him of things he hadn’t even done… Because the more he spoke, the more something unlocked itself, and suddenly new, undiscovered memories were flooding into his brain, and James could see Barton’s face on a tiny, skinny body, from stories he hadn’t _seen_ but had _heard_ many, many years ago.

James didn’t even realize _who_ he was talking about anymore until he was shouting, grey eyes shining with hurt, angry tears, “ _Why did you have to do all of that stupid shit!? You were supposed to stay home; you weren’t supposed to leave! You were supposed to need me and stay safe and let me protect you – I CAN’T ALWAYS BE THERE TO KEEP YOU SAFE, STEVE!_ ”

And then he’d stopped, mouth hanging open and eyes widening at the realization of what he’d just said. Barton had just stared at him calmly – albeit it, with his brows shooting damn near to his hairline – and said after a few seconds’ pause, “Feel better?”

James had promptly closed his mouth and left the room. They haven’t spoken since.

There’s a quiet sound of fabric hitting the floor that snatches James from his thoughts. He pulls the rest of the wrap from his hand and bundles it into a ball as he looks over his shoulder. Steve’s removed his shirt; left in nothing but his shorts and running shoes. James realizes that Steve came  _prepared -_ properly dressed. He watches the blond walk over to the large square mat taking up half of the room and can’t stop himself from staring at the way Steve’s back muscles ripple with every minute movement his shoulders make. He’s still glaring, but he gulps.

“You’re pissed,” Steve says simply, without judgement. Turning to face James, he nods and then tilts his chin to the floor in an offering gesture. “You have every right to be. So c’mon, let’s get it out of your system.”

“You’re damn right I’m pissed,” James growls. He opens his stance up to Steve but he doesn’t move any closer. He _wants_ to, but that instinct in him that refuses to hurt Steve holds him back.

“ _Why_ does it make you angry?” 

James gapes. “Are you fucking _kidding_ me? You go off and… and… _sacrifice_ yourself at every fucking turn, and you don’t even care – you don’t give a _shit_ what’d happen if your luck ended and you bit the goddamn bullet! You’ve _never_ given _any_ regard for how _I’d_ – you…” His heart rate’s too quick again. Chest heaving, he looks away and chokes out, “You know what? Just fuckin’ _forget_ it. Just leave me the fuck alone and let me calm down my own way.”

“You’re right. I shouldn’t have done those things without thinking of how it would’ve affected you,” Steve apologizes. “It’s just… That’s who I am, Buck. I need to protect people. But if it counts for anythin’, you were always the last face I saw when I thought my time was up. Was always you, Buck.”

“Stop _calling_ me that,” James snaps weakly under his breath. His face pinches up and he’s gritting his teeth. How could Steve tell him something like that? Of _course_ that doesn’t make it any fucking better – it just makes it that much worse.

“I don’t regret you remembering that stuff, Buck,” Steve continues anyways. He’s still the pinnacle of _calm_ , and it’s making James’s blood boil because – like always – he feels like nothing but a loose, sparked fuse. “I don’t like having to keep things from you. But you need to let them come back to you on your own. I can’t force you to remember until you’re ready.”

James’s eyes snap to him. He _knew_ it – he knew there was more that Steve wasn’t telling him. For _six months_ … Six fucking months he’s been trying to wrack his brain for the answers and drawing nothing but blanks, while Steve’s known all along and been keeping it from him.

“What aren’t you telling me?” he asks, voice low and deadly.

Steve’s brows slowly knit and he starts to shake his head. _No_ , _don’t act confused – you lying asshole, don’t you dare._ “Buck, I don’t--”

“Don’t _call_ me that!” James shouts. Steve _flinches_ ; suddenly looks wounded. James hates himself for making him look that way but he can’t hear it – it’s so wrong when Steve says his name like that, there’s something _missing, there’s something fucking missing_ … “What aren’t you telling me!?” he demands again.

For a second, it feels like Steve’s about to actually come clean. He pauses for a moment too long and visible swallows. But then he gives James a pained, regretful look and starts to say, “I _can’t_ , I – I’m sorry, it wouldn’t be right, I--”

“SHUT UP!” James screams, snapping. His legs are moving before he realizes what he’s doing, and suddenly he’s _running_ at Steve. He’s momentarily scared that he’s about to strike him with a heavy fist, unable to control his actions. But what he winds up doing is tackling him to the ground. He wants to yell at Steve to _stop – please – just fucking_ stop _and tell him what’s going on, who_ are _you, what_ were _we, why can’t I_ leave _you, tell me you fucking_ love _me,_ please…

Instead, all he can manage in his blind, desperate rage are frustrated, wild growls and strained cries. Steve doesn’t fight it at first; just drops flat to his back and wraps his arms around James, as if to hug him close. He slowly feels himself crumbling as hot tears fill his eyes again. He starts to curl in, wheezing, until he’s burying his face in the blond’s neck and trembling. Steve brings one hand up to clutch the back of his head, but then James is snarling and shoving himself away, shouting, “ _Fight back!_ ”

He deliberately uses his flesh hand when he cocks his fist back and then brings it across Steve’s cheek – making _just_ enough contact to hit him but hardly enough to really hurt. He just needs Steve to give him _something_ , something to stop the frenzy going on in his brain and provide him with just a _few_ precious moments of relief… of understanding.

“Fight back!” he repeats, but this time is sounds a lot more like begging. His voice cracks on the second word.

They stare at each other for an extended heartbeat, and then Steve surges up. Grabbing James, he gets him into a hold and flips them over. Relieved and yet somehow even more frustrated, they begin to grapple and fight each other for control, rolling around and panting loudly as they take turns one-upping the other. When Steve gets him on his back and straddles his thighs, James snarls up at him and repositions his grip to flip the blond off. Baring his teeth and eyes, broken and wild, he lunges at Steve again and wrestles both wrists into his metal hand. Steve struggles but some of Stark’s recent improvements have made the arm even _stronger_ – so the plating shifts and whirls, and James pins them above Steve’s head to the mat, immobilizing him.

Their faces are so close that James can feel, _taste_ Steve’s breath washing over his face. Startled, he realizes that Steve’s pupils are dilated; that the blond’s cock is hard and pushing up between his legs. Slowly tilting his chin down, he looks between their bodies to where he’s straddling Steve’s waist. Faintly, he hears Steve choke out, “Buck, _m’sorry_ , I..."

But when he tries to break free from the brunet’s grip and shamefully force their bodies apart, James tightens the hold on his wrists – grabs them with his real hand as well for extra leverage – and slams them back down against the mat. Looking back at Steve’s face, he searches the blond’s eyes and experimentally grinds himself against that long, thick erection straining against Steve’s leg. Steve chokes on a gasp; lips parting… Body jolting… _Whimpers_ out without control…

“ _Buck_ …”

James seizes. Inside, his brain goes into overdrive and starts revving fast, _faster, faster_ – and then something in fissures and everything shatters apart. A fucking _fingerprint_ , the way Steve breathes his name like that is that telltale _fingerprint_ – no one could say it that way, and _now_ he’s finally saying it right. Memories unlock and fast-forward before his eyes, and suddenly James can’t breathe; he can’t breathe and he can’t think because _Buck… Bucky… Oh, please…_ and Steve’s _his,_ this is _his Stevie_ , and his heart flattens against his ribcage like wallpaper for the first time in over seventy years.

His Steve, his _angel_ – _still_ hasn’t accepted his wings and flown away; still right here and James’s, _yes, yes he is, he’s James’s, no one else’s._

Slamming their mouths together, he crushes Steve’s head to the mat and kisses him so hard it feels like his lips will bruise. Beneath him, Steve squeezes his eyes shut and immediately starts fumbling to kiss him back hastily, as if his own dam is coming down around them, too. He whines softly, sounding pained, and tries to arch his back to bring more of his body in contact with James’s.

Breathing roughly, James licks possessively into Steve’s mouth, somehow just as knowingly as he’d done all those lifetimes ago. _Like riding a bike._ He can’t kiss fast enough, or _deep_ enough. He needs to press them so tightly together that he seeps into Steve’s veins and they become one fucking person. If he fears it may slip away from him again, he rolls his hips back down and provokes another gasp, another whimper – another fucking _perfect_ repetition of his name, in the way only Steve Rogers can say. Releasing Steve’s wrists, big hands immediately fly to his back. One slides to clutch the back of James’s neck; the other, to the brunet’s ass. His mouth is open as he moans softly and _uncontrollably_ , so James seals himself over it and fucks his tongue in faster to make Steve feel good – _so good, he just needs to make Steve feel so good. He needs this back._

He remembers how he’d felt in the war – how he’d worried he’d lost _his_ Steve. It doesn’t fucking matter if Steve Rogers is small or big or perfectly imperfect or perfectly _perfect_. He’ll always be the most beautiful thing James has ever seen. So long as Steve is _his_ , perfect will forever remain _perfect_.

He becomes a little bit more of _Bucky_ again.

“Buck, _oh God…_ I’m… I’m so – Bucky, m’so sorry,” Steve whispers between kisses, sounding agonized. “I wanted to – I wanted to tell you, but… I… I didn’t know, I… I _couldn’t,_ Buck--”

James breaks the kiss to straighten up and yank his shirt over his head. Steve’s flushed and _glowing_ as his baby blues divert and take in the sight of his bare torso; the bionic arm and where metal meets with gnarled flesh. Steve opens his mouth again and James _knows_ it’s to spout out another apology, so he just dives back in and grabs his face, silencing him with another kiss. He rolls them over. Grabbing the back of golden hair with his right hand, and Steve’s hip in the other, he pants loudly and claims Steve’s mouth again hungrily – pushing and tugging with his metal hand to coax Steve to start rocking against him.

Steve does, and they both squeeze their eyes shut tight, shuddering. Steve makes a broken noise and James groans. Feeling feverish, he releases his hip so he can fumble for Steve’s dick from over his shorts. _God, yes,_ he had it nestled against his palm and cradled in his fingers since the war – _too_ long ago, it’s been too fucking long…

When Steve was small, everything about his body felt like it was made to fit just right in James’s hands, his mouth. In Europe, when Steve was bigger, they didn’t fit together _quite_ as right, but their hearts still beat for the other, so they had made do. _Now…_ Steve’s the one who’s stayed the same while _James’s_ gotten bigger. James’s grown, he’s changed… And seventy years later, Steve’s perfectly made for him again.

He’ll have time later to sift through each memory in greater detail and take his time handling them with care. All he knows right now is that he needs Steve. That’s it – _that’s all he’s ever needed._ The blond undulates in a way that makes James’s eyes flutter behind his lids, and suddenly he’s breathing out, “Want you… Steve… _Stevie_ … Wanna fuck you…”

Steve moans shakily and nods against his face before straightening up. “J-Jarvis?” he calls into the air, breathless.

“Yes, Captain Rogers,” the A.I. responds immediately.

“Shut off the camera and audio, please,” he instructs. His gaze is still burning down onto the brunet; doe-eyed and lusty and _like he’s seconds away from begging for James’s cock._ “Secure any entrance into the room so no one can come in.”

“Or _out_ ,” James adds, surging up and kissing him again. He can hear the smooth, English voice answer, “Yes, sir,” but he’s too busy drinking and memorizing the taste of Steve’s tongue while he sucks on it. They bite at each other’s lips and James gets it, why Steve always looked at him as if he was _home_ , because kissing Steve finally brings him that same sense of peace – the comfort and safety he’s been missing ever since he fell from that train in the Alps.

He and Steve were never meant to be apart. James thinks he can accept that now; doesn’t want it any other way.

Steve in his lap like this feels jarringly familiar. He’s struck with an idea, and he acts on it without it requiring any thought; just instinct, as second-nature as breathing, as _Steve_ in his veins and heart and soul. Teetering them forward, he wrangles his metal arm below the blond’s ass and pushes their weight up with his legs. It’s slightly shaky, getting to his feet, but once he’s balanced himself, it’s like Steve weighs _nothing at all_ on his arm like that.

It’s been so long, _so fucking long_ , since Steve’s been manhandled, and he keens for it just as needily now as he did then (probably harder _now_ since he’s been so goddamn starved for it). Wrapping his long, thick legs around James’s waist, he clings to him – all two-hundred and forty pounds of his super soldier frame – and whimpers in the brunet’s mouth again. Head spinning, James strides forward to the nearest wall and slams Steve against it. The blond cries out with surprise. James still can’t think.

“My name,” he husks as he turns his face to the other side and goes in for another kiss. “Say it – fuckin’ _beg_ me to take you, _right here_ , just like this.”

“ _Buck!_ ” Steve moans desperately. He feels as achingly hard as James is in his own shorts. He grinds Steve against the wall and thrusts between his legs like he could somehow bypass the fabric and fuck right up into him then and there. Steve whimpers, wobbly in his throat, and then pleads when James starts sucking and biting down his neck, “Oh _please_ , _please,_ Buck, _Bucky,_ fuck… me… Fuck me, please, _oh my God_ , need it, need _you_ , missed you, so fuckin’ bad… M’sorry, _Buck,_ oh, yes, _mm_ … Forgive me, m’sor--… I… oh fuck _, please, please,_ fuck me _, please…_ ”

James growls against the skin of his jugular before sinking his teeth into it, making Steve moan hotly. Feeling impatient, he maneuvers Steve so he takes his weight on his regular arm for a moment – just long enough to grab his shorts with his bionic hand and rip them clean off Steve’s body with a loud, satisfying _rip._ Steve’s too gone to even care. Just grabs for James’s face and kisses him the second he can again. James needs more.

Knowing Steve’s dick is out there in the open now, he needs to get his mouth on it. It’s so easy now, with that metal arm; they’re even now, practically even in their abilities. It’s hardly strenuous for James to use it to support the blond’s weight and suddenly force him _up, up, up –_ back sliding up that wall as he eyes that gorgeous, flushed cock… Mouth already salivating just like it used to…

It’s just as easy to get Steve’s legs over his shoulders. Anchoring that metal hand below Steve’s ass to hold the majority of the weight, he presses his flesh hand to the blond’s abs and keeps him pinned to the wall. And suddenly he’s wrapping his lips around his cock and sucking him down with all the fervor he used to feel for this kid. He had a hard time taking Steve all the way into his throat back in the war, but now that’s all he wants. So he chokes himself over and over on that beautiful dick and moans loudly every time he tastes that _delicious_ bitterness of Steve’s precome dribbling along his tongue.

They don’t have to be quiet anymore. Nothing needs to be kept a secret. As he licks all along the length, sucks the tip, tongues Steve’s frenulum, and _still_ manages to get it so deep that his nose presses into those little curls at the base, he _finally_ gets to hear what Steve _really_ sounds like when nothing’s holding him back.

Turns out Steve’s a screamer.

Except for when he comes… He still grabs the back of James’s head and hugs him close, and now it _does_ make James gag but he’s grateful for it; never wants Steve to let him go again; Steve _still_ curls in all around him and goes taut. But instead of being silent, and instead of _screaming_ , the second he goes off and starts to come in James’s mouth, he chokes on the air in his genetically-modified, perfect lungs – and _whimpers_ his name, breathless and desperate and timeless.

“ _Buck!_ ”

It's soft and sweet... Soft, like cotton candy at Coney Island, or feathers on the wings of angels. And James – _Bucky_ – realizes that he’s heard his name by moaned, be gasped, be _screamed_ \- in a number of different voices, by a number of different people. But none of them will ever say his name the way Steve does. After all this time – yeah, he loves the sound of his Stevie crying out and sobbing, now that they can _finally_ love out loud... 

But when Steve whimpers it - like a prayer, still like their own little  _secret_ ; meant for no one but his ears?

That’ll always be the way that Bucky likes it best.

**Author's Note:**

> Stucky-inspired gifs for you today:
> 
> 1\. Up against the waaaall
> 
> 2\. Squint and imagine this is skinny!Steve and Buck
> 
> 3\. Oh yeah, here's the actual gif of buddy who looks JUST like Steve Rogers sucking dick
> 
> 4\. Yuuuummmm
> 
> 5\. UGH WOW


End file.
